Something I’ve been increasingly grappling with in the past few months is the constant work of maintaining some sense of self, some grasp on the things that bring me individual generativity and joy, which extend beyond my relational roles at home and in the workplace. If I’m being honest, this has been a struggle for me ever since we left the place I consider my second home (Baltimore) and moved up to Boston, all the more accentuated by the whirlwind of this past year and the experience of new fatherhood. I love Jordan. He’s ridiculously cute. It’s been indescribably gratifying watching him grow into his wonderful, outsized personality (and big ol’ skull) and his ever-expanding relationship with the world around him. I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world (despite constant jokes about bringing him back to the baby store).
Nevertheless, I have watched so many other joys fall to the wayside, in the face of the constant entropy of maintaining a household, the neverending fatigue of balancing competing responsibilities with never-enough time. I haven’t written poetry in a year. I started writing a novella just before Jordan’s birth, but haven’t made it past an outline and a first chapter. I’ve been finding it hard to explore the world - or even the city around me - with the same sense of freedom, wondrous connection, and creative possibility that were so integral to my earlier identity. Sure, I’ve taken little walks, a few hours away from the house during my off-service time, but even during these rare moments of privacy, it’s hard not to feel guilty - like I could or should be spending this precious time with my rapidly-growing -up kiddo. It has felt nothing like the ranging, introspective walks I constantly took during my stints in Guadalajara and New York City, around Baltimore, Maryland, and throughout the wildlands of the West. Those hours and days, as important as anything I ever invested into my studies and profession, were where I formed my identity, my awe and gratitude to the natural and human communities around me, and my love of discovering and giving expression to beauty in everyday life (often through the lens of a camera). It strikes me that if I want to be able to share these feelings and experiences with my little one over the coming years, I will have to find some way to maintain my core, to give myself space for self-compassion and self-discovery even as my world becomes more complex and the demands on my energy grow. I won’t pretend to know the path forward. I’m still working on finding it - for now, putting one foot ahead of the next and trusting myself, trusting that I’ll know how to walk the path when I find it.
To that end, this week, in the midst of another busy academic year, I found myself with a little two-day mini-vacation wedged between various commitments of some importance. Though such a short time would ordinarily feel neither here nor there in terms of travel plans or true leisure, I determined to treat this as a real vacation - out-of-office message, clearing both inbox and calendar ahead of time, making solo plans, and so forth. On the first day of my mid-week break, I take a day trip to East Boston, which I’ve never really explored in the past. I ride to the end of the Blue Line and get off at Revere Beach; it’s an absolutely perfect day at the tail end of summer - bluebird skies, crashing surf, wind in my hair. My spirits are totally buoyed as I step out of station, across the shore drive, and onto a shining expanse of shifting sands. Walking along the beach, I collect a pair of enormous quahog shells to bring home to show Jordan. After some time in the sun, I hop back on the T and ride a few stops back to East Boston to explore the side streets near the Belle Isle Marsh Reservation. Eastie is a beautiful neighborhood in the same way that Baltimore was beautiful: vibrant with immigrant culture and cuisine, stunning to walk on a fine-weather day, and (importantly) gritty enough to hold your interest. Walking across Belle Isle Inlet, I jaywalk Saratoga Street to shoot long telephoto comps across the marsh toward the houses of Revere, and out across the inlet toward Boston’s airport, harbor, and skyline. To top it all off, I treat myself to what others have told me is a true Bostonian rite of passage - the legendary lobster roll at Belle Isle Seafood, a massive heaping pile of claw and tailmeat, lightly dressed and served cold on a grilled bun, and eaten in the parking lot under glorious skies while watching boats dock at the marina and planes land and take off across the water. After lunch, I stroll back toward Orient Heights along Bayswater Street, shooting city and water views as I go. I’m back in Brookline in the late afternoon, concluding an absolutely fantastic outing, and one of my happiest days in quite a long time.
